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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30103155">monstrum</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/palmofafreezinghand/pseuds/palmofafreezinghand'>palmofafreezinghand</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Twilight Series - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gap Filler, Pre-Canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 23:20:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,899</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30103155</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/palmofafreezinghand/pseuds/palmofafreezinghand</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>a collection of short works &amp; one-shots exploring the years before twilight &amp; some of the missed interactions during</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Carine Cullen/Esme Cullen, Carlisle Cullen/Esme Cullen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 1921 little houses</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi all! I can't figure out how to index these any better so here's an index for the whole piece that I'll update as I add to it (note: i'm using the ampersand as just a way to list the characters in the chapter not as a ship indicator)<br/>1. 1921 esme<br/>2. 1933 rosalie &amp; esme<br/>3. 1921 carine &amp; esme<br/>4. 1933 rosalie<br/>5. 2006 sue &amp; billy<br/>6. 2003 charlie &amp; billy &amp; harry<br/>7. 1911 esme &amp; carlisle</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>a theory on how esme discovered her love for architecture &amp; design. cw: domestic abuse reference</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>1921</p><p>Carlisle had bought the Ashland estate at a bank auction. The previous owner was a widow with no local children who wanted the home; so, it was sold for practically nothing to a mysterious doctor and his even more mysterious ‘brother.’ Years of a family’s history were packed in the little farmhouse on the outskirts of town. Practically every possession the late woman owned was included with the property deed. Edward and Carlisle used most of the furniture and put the unnecessary pieces in storage. Storing them in the attic or in unused rooms. When Esme had moved in they took a few of the more feminine pieces out of storage, offering her claim over anything else she could find.</p><p>They had given Esme free reign of the home, she was free to enter any room, free to take anything. ‘What’s mine is yours,’ Carlisle had repeated like a morning prayer. She spent a lot of her free time that first year rummaging through the attic, the outdoor shed, the cellar. Until she learned the hard way cellars were still horrifying. She indexed the objects, organized the collection, and repurposed all she could. She pitied the late woman, her memories had been thrown to the wayside. Esme could not imagine everything she owned just tucked in an attic when she died, auctioned off at the courthouse steps because no one cared enough to keep anything. Until she realized her things probably didn’t have the decency to be auctioned off. They were either burned with the month’s trash or left to slowly deteriorate in that cold dark house. Maybe he used them as his punching bag, releasing his anger on the very idea of her. Fists clenched against figments of a being.</p><p>She was determined to revitalize and reuse everything she could. There was no reason the objects had to die with their previous owner. She hung curtains, set out vases, put throw pillows on the couches. She tried her skills in her own room first, the only thing left that was hers alone. She sewed curtains with old sheets she found, kept fresh flowers in antique pitchers, painted a mural of an Ohioan sunset on the blank wall. Edward mentally tracked the changes she made, he thought it was endearing. But he knew she needed to do them in secret, for whatever reason. He rarely dared to acknowledge the changes besides a passing “that looks nice.” One day Carlisle wandered into her room and was convinced he entered an alternate dimension. The awe that decked his face was permission enough to expand her talents to the rest of the house. She gradually returned the house to the home it once was.</p><p>The dollhouse was tucked in the back of the attic, guarded by a dozen cardboard boxes and covered in an old quilt. The house was a little over four feet tall. A grand Victorian manor of her wildest childhood fantasies. As a child she had loved her dollhouse, played with it for much longer than she would ever admit. As an only child living in the middle of farmland it was her own little world, a way to escape farm chores or her mother’s nagging. This dollhouse however was much grander than her childhood folding four room box. It had stained glass windows, a spire, intricately carved fireplaces. It was foolish but she felt sad for the little house. The tiny mansion was dilapidated and forgotten at the moment; but the years of love that had been poured into it were clear to see. She could imagine little hands that had made it into their own little world - the future little hands it had been saved for but never got to meet. She may not have been the previous owner’s intended audience but that was no reason the house could not be grand once more. She spent months restoring the little building. She hand painted ornate wallpaper. She replaced the broken windows. She sewed curtains, bed coverings, tablecloths out of the all clothes she had destroyed hunting. She made furniture out of spare wood around the yard. She made a little world in the tiny house, imagining the fictional family who occupied it, not a single element overlooked. When the boys were home she tucked the little house in the back of her closet, she did not even dare think of it in Edward’s presence. The little house was hers and hers alone. It felt selfish but it was her escape and she would not let it be sullied by their mockery. It was foolish; but, after the life she had, she felt entitled to a little guilt free foolishness.</p><p>One day she wished the boys a good day and safe travels and made her way back to her room in the empty house, greeted by a little white box on her bed. She took the piece of Carlisle’s stationary off the top of the little paper box, “A proper house needs proper residents,” Carlisle’s signature script read. “Edward helped!” was haphazardly scratched on the bottom of the page. She laughed as she unwrapped the box, the two had yet to get over the novelty of gift giving. She gently moved the tissue paper to reveal a family of little porcelain dolls. She had no idea how they had figured it out but was grateful nonetheless. She skipped to her closet to move the new family in.</p><p>“What are their names?” Edward asked as he waltzed into her room some hours later, Carlisle leaned against the frame behind him, silently waiting to be welcomed.<br/>
“No making fun of me,” she went to shove the dollhouse back into the closet.<br/>
“I’m not.” He bent down to pick up the ‘father’ doll, “you should name this one Edward.”<br/>
“Edward Junior?” She looked up at him smiling.<br/>
“It would technically have to be Edward Junior Junior,” Carlisle said as he took a seat next to his fiancee on the floor. “Edward the third I suppose.”<br/>
“See he looks like an Eddy,” Edward sat as he picked up the doll of a little boy dressed in his Sunday best, suspenders and all. “This one could be Edwinda,” he pointed to the ‘mother’ doll, “Edith? No. Edwina,” he adjusted the doll’s hat.<br/>
“I am sensing a theme,” Carlisle laughed as he reached a hand to the dollhouse. He glanced back to Esme, an eyebrow raised. She nodded and he delicately reached out to the house. “Es, this is incredible.” His eyes darted from the hand painted wallpaper to the hand embroidered tablecloths to the elaborate crown moulding she had carved. Every centimeter of the house was so painstakingly crafted.<br/>
“Edie,” Edward said as he placed the little girl doll at the kitchen table, he placed the cloth napkin in her lap before scotting her chair in.<br/>
“Edward Junior Junior married Edwina and had little Edie and Eddy?” Esme asked as he opened the green kitchen cabinets and placed miniature food Esme had sculpted in front of the girl.<br/>
“The Edwards family?” Carlisle grinned as he opened and closed one of the bedroom doors, marveling at the tiny hinges.<br/>
“There’s an idea,” Edward laughed as he moved out of the kitchen.<br/>
“What’s the dog's name? Eduardo?” Carlisle asked as moved the porcelain dog to sit on its bed next to the living room fireplace.<br/>
“Don’t be ridiculous, that’s Carl,” Edward laughed as he set Edward Jr. Jr. at the grand piano.<br/>
“These actually button!” Carlisle held a miniature blazer she had made out of a pair of his wrecked trousers. He hung the empty little hanger, made out of fishing wire, back in the coat closet.<br/>
“I am nothing if not thorough,” she smiled as the boys marveled at all the tiny details she had made.<br/>
“Look at the little pocket,” Carlisle said to himself as he cradled the little blazer in his hand.<br/>
“The lights turn on!” Edward exclaimed, seeing her thoughts. He looked around the house to find a way to turn on the lights, pressing at the tiny decorative switch she had made. She took the wire panel from the side of the house and flicked the lights on. Sure enough, the house was illuminated. Edward quickly closed Esme’s bedroom curtains so the tiny lights could shine.<br/>
“How?” Carlisle asked as he leaned in to inspect the grand chandelier she had made out of spare beads.<br/>
“Magic.” She rested her head on Carlisle’s shoulder as the three continued to explore the dollhouse.</p><p>When they later moved from Ashland the little dollhouse moved with them, giving her a sense of confidence to work on their new house. And her magic turned their and many other’s houses into homes for years to come.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you so much for reading!<br/>if you would ever like to see a certain prompt or idea please feel free to drop a request here or on tumblr ( palmofafreezinghand)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 1933 broken dishes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>rosalie &amp; esme try a new therapy exercise. cw: domestic abuse &amp; sexual assault mentions</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>September 1933</p><p>The humidity was particularly high for the region, thick enough to chew. Clouds covered the skyline physically and seemed to strangle the little home nestled in the outskirts of town. Rosalie had been ‘living’ with the three vampires for four months.<br/>
She despised the world she was forced into, hated the men who ruined her life, dead and undead, harbored nothing but resentment for the man who claimed he was trying to save her. She refused to communicate with Carlisle or Edward if she could help it, and used Esme as her interpreter as often as she could. Rosalie unintentionally, and unknowingly, attached herself quite thoroughly to her ally. If she was not in her own room she could be found by Esme’s side, or at the least in her vicinity. A problem arose that muggy summer week when the typically nothing but graceful and calm confidant was reclusive and seldomly seen.</p><p>Rosalie only saw glimpses of the woman she begrudgingly considered her best friend. Fleeting interactions. She wandered into the living room three nights in a row, and found the two men she despised where Esme would usually be perched by the fireplace sketching. The garden was empty, Carlisle walked through quickly to water it after his work shifts. Her art room was vacated, the linseed oil smell barely lingered in the air. Rosalie knew where Esme was of course, supernatural senses made disappearing hard, she just couldn’t figure out why.<br/>
Esme, always the extrovert, the one who spent almost every free minute of her time with other people, had been tucked in her bedroom for three days now.</p><p>On the second day when it came time for Rosalie to hunt she waited by the front door. Her stomach dropped when she saw the doctor, dressed in his hunting attire, with a grimace on his face walking down the stairs.</p><p>“Esme was wondering if you’d be so kind to let me take you out today? I promise I won’t get in your way,” he asked without meeting her eye. She hated him, hated that patronizing tone, how he worded the question to make her feel guilty, how he tried to pin it on his wife.</p><p>“Where’s Esme?”</p><p>“She’s…” she watched him ponder the words, could see the gears in his head turning, “she’s not really feeling herself this afternoon. She said she would come if you needed her to, but I assured her you wouldn’t mind.”</p><p>His face had never looked so punchable, “I do mind,” she seethed, “but you can come with,” she spat out as she opened the door and bounded down the steps, “but only because I care about her more than I hate you.”</p><p>It was now day three of Esme’s seclusion and Rosalie had finally figured out what was wrong. She stomped up the grand staircase and bounded down the hall to the master bedroom, the only room in the house she had yet to enter. Her hand hovered over the door, for a second she felt like a child waking up her parents after a nightmare. She shook the thought and knocked briskly.</p><p>“Rose-” she heard Esme start to say but was cut off by the door being flung open. She looked up to meet the ever smug doctor who looked exasperated, as if her very presence was trying.</p><p>“Ms. Hale, how can I help you?”</p><p>“I’m not here for you,” she hissed as she tried to push into the room, he stopped her. He physically stopped her, she looked back up at him with unadulterated fury.</p><p>Before she could scratch out his eyeballs Esme had ducked under his arm to stand in the doorway.</p><p>“Hi, honey. What’s the matter?” She smiled as if nothing had happened, as if she hadn’t been practically missing for three days.</p><p>“I know why you’re upset.”</p><p>“I’m not upset.”</p><p>“Bullshit.”</p><p>“Rosalie,” Carlisle chastised, as if she was a disobedient pet.</p><p>“Go to hell.”</p><p>“Won’t need to travel far,” Edward called from another room.</p><p>Before she could make a smart remark she met Esme’s eyes. Up until that point she hadn’t known vampires could possibly look tired but Esme’s dark eyes showed nothing but utter exhaustion.</p><p>That was enough to remind her why she had embarked on this mission in the first place, so she thought of her insult instead.</p><p>“We’re going outside,” was all Rosalie could mutter aloud.</p><p>“I don’t think that’s-” Carlisle started.</p><p>“I didn’t ask you.”</p><p>“Do you need to hunt?” Esme asked.</p><p>“No. We’re going to try a new coping mechanism.” The two had been guiding each other through trauma for months, finding a comfort in each other’s unfortunately similar stories.</p><p>“Oh, alright, can you wait fifteen minutes?” Her hair was pinned up in a bun with little structural integrity and she was in what appeared to be Carlisle’s pajamas. An utterly useless garment for the unsleeping vampire to have in the first place. If it was a different day she would almost be charmed by the domesticity of the whole getup. But she just found it an irritating reminder of the aggravating man who so desperately wanted to play pretend human. His perfect wife in his pajamas in their perfect home, with their children, who appeared to be perfect, with his wonderful job.<br/>
He so desperately wanted to fit into his little charade he doomed others to this life just so he could fulfill his little fantasy.</p><p>“It’s not <em>for</em> me,” Rosalie responded.</p><p>“Excuse me?”</p><p>“It’s for you this time.”</p><p>“Oh, that’s not necessary. I know I’ve been weird the past few days and I apologize but I’m quite alright I just needed to finish this project.”</p><p>“So we’re lying to each other now?”</p><p>“I really don’t think this is productive for the state you’re in.” Carlisle whispered to his wife. It was clear ‘this’ was a stand in for ‘she.’</p><p>“She can decide that for herself.”</p><p>Esme sighed, and pressed a finger against her temple,“I’m thrilled you have an exercise you think helpful, would you mind if we did it another day?” She asked, trying to appease both parties, who had once again thrown her into the middle of an impossible situation.</p><p>“No. I’ve tried it your way. I’ve done your breathing exercises, I’ve journaled, I’ve tried it all, ok? It’s time for you to try my way.”</p><p>“Rose.”</p><p>“No, you've been holed up here for three days. You’re clearly not alright. We’re going.”</p><p>“I’m fine.”</p><p>Rosalie groaned and took Esme’s hand without a word, pulling her out of the house. As they passed the entryway she grabbed a box she had stowed there weeks earlier.<br/>
Rosalie dragged Esme all the way to the field behind their house, two and a half miles away. She set Esme up on the far side of the field, where the ‘family’ usually swung for baseball. She released the woman’s hand, confident she wouldn’t run, and placed the cardboard box on the ground. She opened the flaps to reveal dozens of mixed matched ceramic plates, bowls, and cups.<br/>
Rosalie picked up two of the plates and passed one to Esme. She noted how Esme took the plate without question, trusting her without condition. Rosalie took her own plate above her head and threw it to the ground. The pieces flew into the air, hundreds of delicate fragments. She smiled half heartedly at the destruction and then turned to Esme. She waved her hand in encouragement.<br/>
Esme stood there, puzzled. The sound of breaking dishes usually sent her into a panic, Rosalie knew this. This time she wasn’t frightened, just confused. Was this some sort of exposure treatment? It took her a moment until she realized.</p><p>“Oh, you expect me to throw it?”</p><p>“No, I want you to piece that back together.” Rosalie rolled her eyes as she pointed to the shards littering the ground. She turned back to her friend and her tone softened considerably, “yes, I want you to break it.”</p><p>“I thought you said we were trying your method of coping?”</p><p>“This is my method.”</p><p>“I really don’t need to break things to feel better.”</p><p>“Try it.”</p><p>“Rosalie, this is ridiculous.”</p><p>“Just throw it.” Esme began to object, “throw it!”</p><p>Esme tossed the plate to the ground, a delicate enough toss the plate remained unharmed.</p><p>“Great, you really hurt that blade of grass.”</p><p>“Rose, I don’t see how this is beneficial.”</p><p>“Pretend it’s his head.”</p><p>“I don’t want to cause anyone physical harm.”</p><p>“Pretend it’s his head!”</p><p>“Rosalie.”</p><p>“His stupid face with that stupid beard you hate, with that gross hot breath breathing down your neck, that isn’t a plate it’s his -”</p><p>Her taunts were interrupted by the cacophony of delicate porcelain meeting the ground. The plate left a crater in the ground, the multi colored shards of ceramic desecrating the lush green grass.</p><p>“There you go!” Rosalie praised, wrapping her arm around Esme’s shoulder. “Feel better?”</p><p>“No,” Esme frowned.</p><p>“Great, I have more.” She placed another plate in the older woman’s hand.</p><p>“If I break one more will you let me go?”</p><p>“Three more.”</p><p>“Two.”</p><p>“Deal.”</p><p>Esme raised the plate, ready to toss it to the ground, it would break, barely.</p><p>“See how far you can chuck it.”</p><p>“I don’t see-”</p><p>“I have plenty of plates.”</p><p>Esme turned abruptly to face Rosalie, “you know that I fully support you coping how you choose but I don’t see how having me destroy things is making you feel better.”</p><p>“It’s not <em>my</em> wedding anniversary today.”</p><p>“Is that what this is about?”</p><p>“Isn’t that what this is about?” Rosalie motioned to Esme’s disheveled appearance.</p><p>Rosalie knew it was what had provoked her, and that it was partially her own fault. Esme hadn’t been able to remember much about her first wedding before Rose, just the lingering feelings. However, as the two dove further into Rosalie’s own wedding plans details began to resurface. Her anniversary being one.</p><p>“I assure you I am fine.” Rosalie didn’t know whether to laugh or growl at that perfectly practiced placating tone. She watched as Esme smoothed her shirt, a nervous tick that still hadn’t faded.</p><p>“For each lie I’m going to add a plate.”</p><p>“I’m not lying,” she said in that same tone.</p><p>“We’re up to four now.”</p><p>Esme groaned in resignation, and threw the plate across the field. It crashed with a tree, the fragments flying through the air. Much to her surprise, it felt good.</p><p>“You call that a pitch?” Rosalie teased.</p><p>“That was at least forty feet.”</p><p>“Try again,” she said as she handed over another plate.</p><p>The plate flew through the air in a perfect arc, Esme’s arm much more determined this time. It collided with a boulder at the outcrop of the field and resulted in a thundering crash. Rosalie opened her mouth, ready to convince Esme to throw another one but was stopped by hearty laughter.</p><p>Esme turned from the rock she was staring at to look at Rosalie, eyes bright and a grin decking her face for the first time in days.</p><p>“Fun, right?” Rosalie handed over another plate. Which was flying through the air in less than a second and once again collided with the boulder, this time the boulder shattered as well.</p><p>“Try to yell with this one.” Rosalie replaced the plate.</p><p>“Why would I do that?”</p><p>“It helps it go farther, it’s what they do in golf.” Rosalie said with false sincerity.</p><p>“No one does that in golf,” Esme laughed.</p><p>“Just try it,” Rosalie grinned.</p><p>The plate entered the air, with much less force now that the athlete was overthinking the motion. It clattered to the ground, shattering in large chunks.</p><p>“Ah.” Esme muttered as it fell.</p><p>“Ferocious,” Rosalie laughed as she took a plate for herself. She stepped back, winding her arm into a pitch. The plate flew over the trees, the sound of it’s crash eclipsed by her ear-piercing shriek. Birds scattered from the treetops in a flurry; but, it was unclear which they were fleeing.</p><p>“Try it.” Rosalie once again handed over a ceramic dish.</p><p>The throw was weaker than the previous ones, the scream anything but frightening; but it was, at the least, a genuine effort.</p><p>A cup was placed in her hands without a word. Wind up, scream, into the air, crash. New plate, wind up, into the air, crash. Again and again and again.</p><p>It was a sight to behold. The, seemingly always put together, housewife in the middle of the wilderness, barefoot, breaking pottery. Her hair had fallen out of it’s updo after so many repetitive pitches. There was a glint in her eye that Rosalie hadn’t seen before.<br/>
Rosalie threw the occasional dish for encouragement when she could see Esme’s morale starting to wean. They ravaged thirty-three ceramic dishes before the cardboard box was empty. The two stood silently side-by-side once the supply was depleted. Rosalie waited for Esme to initiate the conversation. She could see the tension had released from her shoulders and her mood seemed lighter. Still, Rosalie knew Esme was one who needed to process before expressing herself, to mull over every word, chew each adjective to make sure the syntax was nice, ensure that she couldn’t possibly offend.</p><p>“Those weren’t my dishes, right?”</p><p>“No,” Rosalie laughed, “I had your husband buy them at a church sale.” She still refused to say Carlisle’s name, typically opting for justified insults; but, she knew it wasn’t the time.</p><p>“Hm.” She murmured as she rested her head against Rosalie’s arm.</p><p>“Seventeen years,” she whispered after awhile.</p><p>“Long time.” Rosalie responded. She knew Esme needed to just talk, just to let her thoughts be heard on her own accord, to have someone else weather the storm with her. This was something, Rosalie quickly learned, her telepathic ‘son’ and problem-solving husband refused to let happen.</p><p>“Feels like yesterday.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah.” She nodded against her shoulder. “It rained.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“In September. Can you believe that? It hadn’t rained all spring or summer and I woke up and it was pouring. I should have taken that as a sign; but, I always liked the rain.”</p><p>“I thought you hated it.”</p><p>“I do now.”</p><p>“Because of that?”</p><p>“Because of him, yeah,” she was fiddling with her nails, in a thumb war with herself. The right was losing. “Thunder hides gunshots. He would say that all the time. ‘Just remember, nobody’ll hear it, Essie.’” She clapped her hands together, repeating a movement he had done hundreds of times.</p><p>“I want to kill him,” Rosalie said through clenched teeth.</p><p>“Me too,” Esme confessed.</p><p>“You do?”</p><p>“Always have.”<br/>
“They didn’t let you?” Rosalie asked, she could see it. She heard the fight Esme and Carlisle had gotten into about her own revenge plan, how Esme had defended her, had single handedly held him and Edward back from stopping her.</p><p>“No, no.” Esme consoled, “I never would have done it. I never even tried. I just think about it.”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>“I just couldn’t,” she mused, “I’m not as strong as you, I guess.”</p><p>“Pfft.”</p><p>“I’m serious. I think I forgave him already.”</p><p>“You don’t see that as strong?” Rosalie did. She wished she could handle her own experiences with the grace Esme did. She would give anything to still be able to trust, wholeheartedly, to give love freely, to live the way Esme did.</p><p>“No. I think if we were in the same room I would say ‘oh really, it’s alright!’ I would let him get away with it. He would just walk right over me again. I think Edward knows that, that’s why he took it into his own hands. Even then, I tried to stop him.”</p><p>“You did?” Rosalie asked, astonished. They had discussed Edward’s vigilante years, his revenge on her husband, how it affected her but she had never admitted she tried to stop him.</p><p>“I told Carlisle one night, not all of it but some, more than I have ever told Edward. He was appalled, he got so enraged, and Edward overheard all his thoughts so then they were both mad. They were determined, they knew where he lived, had the motivation. I had to physically pin them down before they came to their senses. And by then we were already halfway to Ohio.”</p><p>“You really think he would have done it?” She knew the doctor to be a pacifist to the point of aggravation.</p><p>“I do, and if you had seen him that night you would too. But I told them not to, I begged them not to.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“I didn’t want them to meet him. I didn’t want him to hurt them, too. A part of me wishes I could have just done what you did,” she kicked at the shard of ceramic at her feet, “but I didn’t.”</p><p>“How would you have done it?”</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>“Poisoning? Bludgeoning? Shoot him with his own gun? Suck his blood?”</p><p>“Oh,” Esme still wasn’t looking at her, as if she was ashamed to admit she even thought about it, “well, the plan changes often, and it’s gotten more elaborate over the years.”</p><p>“What’s the current one?”</p><p>“I don’t really want to do this.”</p><p>“Please,” Rosalie pleaded.</p><p>“I would take him out in a fishing boat,” her eyes closed as if she was seeing it in front of her, “something he never let me do with him,” she added pointedly. “I would take him out on a lake, and oh no! He would somehow fall off the boat.”</p><p>Rosalie feigned shock, gasping humorously.</p><p>“Then I’d go back to shore.”</p><p>“Wait, I’m sorry, you’d just dump him overboard? He could swim to land!”</p><p>“You didn’t let me finish,” she said as she continued with her story, “I would dump him overboard, but I would have secretly sewn fishing weights into his pants and coat to weigh him down. He’d be drunk enough he wouldn’t notice until he was in the water. It wouldn’t be enough to drown him, just make the swim harder. Picture it he crawls onto the beach, exhausted, bogged down in algae, grateful to be alive and then who is standing above him” she trailed off, smiling as she pictured the fright on the monster’s face.</p><p>“Then you’d kill him?”</p><p>“No, but that’s when he’d be rendered unconscious. I don’t really have the rest.”</p><p>“I love it,” Rosalie beamed.</p><p>“Me too.” Esme smiled slightly.</p><p>“I can’t believe that’s how it happened,” Rosalie said in awe.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“That’s how it happened, screw redhead, that’s how it happened.”</p><p>“That’s sweet but that really-”</p><p>“Just try it. Try saying it. ‘I killed him, he’s dead.’” Rosalie insisted.</p><p>“Rose.”</p><p>“Have I led you wrong today?”</p><p>“I killed him,” she whispered after a few moments.</p><p>“Feel good?”</p><p>“Yes,” she admitted even quieter. It was a sentiment she knew to be true, Charles would never have been murdered if it wasn’t for her. She killed him, at least by influence. Yet, she had never dared utter the words aloud. It was oddly a freeing experience, like releasing a weight into a lake.</p><p>“There we go.” Rosalie praised.</p><p>“Thank you for today.”</p><p>“Don’t mention it.”</p><p>“No, I needed this. I didn’t know I did but it was nice,” she paused as she tried to ascertain what was nice, “being angry for a change, it was nice.”</p><p>“You know if you ever feel like you do indeed need to kill a husband, I’ll help take blondie,” Rosalie smiled.</p><p>“How generous, I think I’m good,” she laughed as she smiled up at her friend, “for now.”</p><p>“Well, you know who to call when he fucks up.”</p><p>“Thank you, Rosalie. Truly.”</p><p>“Anytime,” she promised as she wrapped her arm around Esme’s shoulders and grabbed the cardboard box with the other hand. She started to walk them back to the house before Esme stopped.</p><p>“Wait, we have to clean this up,” she motioned to the litter strewn across the field.</p><p>“Idiot 1 and 2 already said they would,” Rosalie grinned as she pulled her friend away from the scene of the crime.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you for reading!!<br/>if you would ever like to see a certain prompt or idea please feel free to drop a request here or on tumblr ( palmofafreezinghand)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 1921 portrait of a lady by fire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>carine walks in on esme painting.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>1922</p><p>Beethoven’s ‘Sonata No. 23’ filled the quiet forest, the phonograph’s faint call welcoming Carine home as she bounded up the front steps. The smell of Esme’s oil paints and floral perfume greeted Carine as she opened the front door. She flicked off her work shoes, slipping into the house shoes she had been asked to wear indoors, and dropped her coat on a hook. She ascended the stairs two at a time as she made her way to Esme, a moth to the flame. She stopped at Esme’s bedroom door for a brief second: listening to the brush of bristles on canvas, the tap of her toe as it kept time with the composition she had on, the slightly off pitch hum as she kept focus on her art. She opened the door as quietly as she could, doing her best to temper the urge to knock.he had been told time and time again it just ruined the artist’s concentration. She was to make her way into the room as silently as she could and take her usual seat at the foot of her bed, watching until her presence was acknowledged.. The routine the two found themselves most days. The door opened with a silent swoop, she smiled at the familiar sight Esme was once again lost in her art, and yet to notice her arrival. She smiled at the sight of caramel curls bouncing along to the music, her eyes traveled farther to see what Esme was painting.</p><p>“Oh!” Carine shouted, when she took in the scene in front of her. Esme had set up her easel in front of the fireplace, which was not atypical. But this time there was a mirror to the left of the canvas, a self portrait. Again, not atypical, she was still too shy to ask Edward or Carine to pose as often as she liked. She was, however, posing for herself in only a slip.</p><p>“Oh dear God!” Esme’s paintbrush clattered to the ground as she turned to see a slack jawed Carine in her doorway. She covered herself with her arms, as she dove for her robe strewn across her bed. Before she reached it her bedroom door slammed closed.</p><p>“I am so sorry!” Carine called from the hallway, the sound of her forehead falling onto the closed door echoed in the bedroom.</p><p>“I apologize, I didn’t hear you come home!”</p><p>“I am so sorry! I should have knocked!” They were talking over one another, apologies piling on top of each other.</p><p>“I’ve told you not to knock,” Esme shouted as she struggled to find some appropriate garments, everything suddenly seemed far too scandalous. She heard Carine shudder in the hallway. “Can we talk about this?”</p><p>“I apologize, Esme, I am so sorry!”</p><p>“It was my fault!”</p><p>“I should have -”</p><p>“I have told you not to knock,” she groaned as she pulled on her stockings, her foot tearing right through them, “just give me a minute and I will be right out!”</p><p>“Yes, alright. Sure, I will just,” Carine stammered on the other side of the door, “I am going to be in my office,” she said after a minute, a faraway element to her voice, she was already halfway down the staircase.</p><p>“Alright!” Esme yelled as she carefully tried on another pair of stockings. .</p><p>Carine flew into her study, collapsing into her desk chair. She shook her head violently, an attempt to get the image that kept replaying out of her brain. The glow of the fireplace reflected on Esme’s bare skin. How the warm haze had made the porcelain skin look alive. Her bare skin. So much of it. The delicate silk that covered the skin that was not bare. No. No. She would distract herself. She had to distract herself. She would not keep imagining the sight. She could not keep imagining. She violated the woman’s privacy. The fact she relished in the sight at all was sinful, but she was her creator, a moral compass for the young woman.</p><p>She grabbed her baseball index, baseball was a distraction, baseball was not romantic. The statistics of the rookie player’s of 1902 occupied her yet she was quickly distracted by memories of their own baseball games. How happy she had been to teach her ‘family.’ How she had taught Esme just months ago. She had to wrap her arms fully around her to teach her how to hold a bat. The smell of her hair, roses and lilacs, had completely consumed her with her head tucked right under Carine’s chin.A stray curl had tickled her nose, resulting in a missed swing. Esme had fit so nicely in her arms, tucked snuggly against her chest. Her small hands had been surprisingly soft, warm to the touch, as Carine guided them - Nope!</p><p>Baseball was not working, she desperately needed a new distraction. She mentally grasped for the least romantic thing she could think of. Surgery. Fishing. Death. Death! Death was icky. Dead people were gross. Good, safe subject. Dead bodies. Cold bodies. The stench of the morgue. She repeated the images in her mind. Dead bodies. Cold bodies. The stench of the morgue. Except not that morgue. Not the one where Esme had been. That morgue was good. It smelled like her that night, her blood. The sweet elixir that had been masterfully crafted just for Carine. The scars she left on the pure skin in a frenzied attempt to save her life. Yes, that was safe. There was nothing attractive about Esme’s death. Except. She wasn’t dead now, no she was alive. Those bites meant she was alive. Bites on her neck, her arms, her chest, her thighs. For the first time since she left them Carine had been able to see those scars again in the subtle light of morning. Those scars were testaments to how she was still alive. The one on her left breast, right over her heart. The scar that curved with the curves of her chest. She longed to lie her head there. Listen for the long gone heartbeat, feel the soft rise and fall against her cheek, physical proof Esme was still alive, that they both were still alive. What it would feel like to brush - Nope!</p><p>Near death. Near death. Remember how Esme was dying. Her life had been saved so she could live, not so she would be some vampire bride. Carine did not steal her away in the night to be Dr. Frankenstein’s monster. It was despicable to take advantage of her position in her life the way she longed to. She looked to Carine for guidance, she was her creator, she disrespected her last dying wishes. Esme owed her nothing. She saved her to save her. Esme did not exist to satisfy Carine’s own lecherous fantasies. Carine had been plagued with treacherous thoughts her entire existence, she would not sully Esme’s being with them as well. But, how could God blame her when he was the one who created a creature so magnificent? No. There were no justifications for this; she was fantasizing about a woman. A married woman! She was fantasizing about a man’s wife. But he didn’t deserve her. Neither of them did. Carine threw that thought out of her mind quickly. Charles did not love her. He did not worship the ground she walked on. He did not spend every waking moment he had thanking the heavens he simply got to know her. He did not bask in her presence like she was the sun after eighty dark nights. He did not spend his hours imagining what it would feel like to just be with her. Was her skin as soft as her hands? Would she be content to just hold her to her chest? Was she just a figment of imagination? He had the honor of being hers, fully hers, and did not perish in gratitude. It was inexcusable. He did not want to fall at her feet and worship every inch of her being for every second of his existence. He would not die to knead her thighs, to soothe the scars left months ago, the thighs that looked strong enough to crush a man’s skull, her skull, what a perfect way to die that would be. No!</p><p>A knock rapped against the office door. “Carine,” Esme’s voice called timidly from the hallway. She was scared. Of course she was. Her privacy had just been breached, in a home that offered her little to begin with. Of course she was terrified, this situation would have ended disastrously in her human life. Esme was terrified, while Carine had spent the last ten minutes fantasizing about taking advantage of her. She had to control herself. If she was not damned before she was surely now. Esme was Lilith, the snake in the garden, the worldly desires she could not get enough of. No this was not her fault! Carine was the one who had succumbed to such mortal vices, who was plagued by irrational lust. She was snapped out of her self loathing by a softer knock, “Carine, I am so sorry, truly.” Esme’s voice broke on the ‘truly,’ and Carine was at the door of her office without a thought.</p><p>“Esme, it was my fault,” Carine said as she opened the door.</p><p>Esme’s eyes were anchored to the ground by shame.She had changed into what would have been a comically ridiculous outfit in any other situation, instead the sight felt like a piercing dagger. The top covered every inch of her torso, her neck concealed under the fabric, and cloaked in a scarf for good measure. Her skirt hung to the floor, she always tripped on the hem. She had covered every inch of skin. Layers upon layers of protection.</p><p>“I am so sorry I made you uncomfortable,” Carine said as she ducked to meet Esme’s eyes.</p><p>“Me uncomfortable? If anything I made you uncomfortable.”</p><p>“By existing in your room?”</p><p>“You are not angry?”</p><p>“Esme, of course not. You ought to be angry at me,” Carine’s fingers ran through her hair as she began to pace the length of her office. “You deserve to feel safe in your own home.</p><p>“Well, I am not, and I do.” Esme shrugged as she retrieved the matchbox from the mantle.</p><p>Carine watched as Esme made her way around the room, lighting candles. “May I ask what made you choose the subject?” She asked after a few minutes, “not that it is not a beautiful sight! Not that I saw anything! All I meant”</p><p>“I like the way the fire looked on my skin,” Esme said as she lit one of the candle sticks on Carine’s desk, it sat directly in front of Carine. “The colors with the slip were pretty.”</p><p>“Almost alive looking,” Carine leaned down as she watched the candle’s flame illuminate Esme’s face.</p><p>“Precisely,” their golden eyes met over the candlestick, breath baited to keep the flame intact or their nerves, neither quite sure.</p><p>“May I see it?” Carine asked, her face remained inches away from Esme’s. “The painting. Nevermind, I should not have-” she stammered and pulled away.</p><p>“Would you care to see it?”</p><p>“Only if you would not mind.”</p><p>Esme took Carine’s hand in hers and tugged her up the stairs back to her bedroom. The fire still roared, the linen curtains blew softly in the morning breeze, the painting stood tall in the middle of the room.</p><p>“Esme,” Carine breathed as she stepped closer to the portrait. She ignored the pull in her chest at the sight of the silk garment delicately rested over porcelain skin. The floral lace details around the collarbone were painted with heartbreaking realism, she ached to feel the image. Instead, she appreciated the portrait as an art. An objective viewer, the night time matron of the arts, “you are a talent.”</p><p>“I only wish the subject was more appealing,” Esme muttered as she started to clean up her paints.</p><p>“Surely you kid,” Carine slowly ran her finger over the painted leg. She was certain a more breathtaking sight had never existed.</p><p>“An artist can only enhance so much,” Esme returned the paint pots to their basket.</p><p>“How lucky there is no need to enhance then,” Carine met Esme’s eyes, her hand still placed on the portrait. “Were you done?”</p><p>“For today, I debated making it darker.”</p><p>“No,” Carine pulled away from the painting, standing upright to view it from afar.</p><p>“You do not think that would be an improvement?” Esme stepped behind Carine and pointed to the background of the scene.</p><p>“It has a lightness to it, like the clouds after a rainstorm. When the sun has emerged for the first time but it is just about to set. When the world is still hazy but there are glimmers of oranges and pinks and blues mixed in a sea of gray. That is what this is. Not just in colors,” she pointed to the light pink chemise, the one she was desperately avoiding looking at, “but in tone too. It is peaceful and hopeful. The fire rages on despite the storm. You are hope,” her finger brushed against Esme’s painted cheek.</p><p>“You can see all that?” Esme rested her chin on Carine’s shoulder, having to stand on her toes to reach.</p><p>“I think it is my favorite thus far.”</p><p>“You say that for each new piece I make.”</p><p>“You astound me more and more each and every time,” Carine leaned into Esme, “but this will be hard to beat. Have you titled it?”</p><p>“You know I never do. What ought we call it?”</p><p>“A lady.”</p><p>“Descriptive,” Esme laughed.</p><p>Carine smiled as she shook her head, “the poem. Amy Lowell.”</p><p>“I can not say I am familiar.”</p><p>“You are beautiful and faded, like an old opera tune played upon a harpsichord,” Carine recited in a whisper, her hand fiddled with Esme’s rested on her arm.<br/>
“Keep going,” Esme linked their fingers.</p><p>“Or like the sun-flooded silks of an eighteenth-century boudoir. In your eyes smoulder the fallen roses of outlived minutes, and the perfume of your soul is vague and suffusing, with the pungence of sealed spice-jars. Your half-tones delight me, and I grow mad with gazing at your blent colors,” she squeezed the hand she held, a futile attempt to translate what she failed to word.</p><p>“My vigor is a new-minted penny, which I cast at your feet. Gather it up from the dust that its sparkle may amuse you,” Esme whispered, completing the poem.</p><p>“So you do know it.” Carine smiled, glancing down at her.</p><p>“A lady.”</p><p>“A lady.”</p><p>“By fire.”</p><p>“By fire,” Carine repeated. They stood entwined , gazing at the portrait of the lady by fire, for some time. The fire in the room flickered on, as the familiar opera filed the silence, their perfumes blended, leaving it impossible to distinguish where one woman began and the other ended.</p><p>“Can you paint me?” Carine finally asked, her voice quieter than a pin drop.</p><p>“I would love nothing more,” Esme replied, she placed a kiss on Carine’s shoulder before pulling away from their embrace to retrieve her paints.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you for reading!!<br/>if you would ever like to see a certain prompt or idea please feel free to drop a request here or on tumblr ( palmofafreezinghand)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 1933 here comes the bride</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>rosalie gets ready to pay royce one last visit, with a little help from esme. cw: sexual assault and domestic abuse mentions.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>1933</p><p>The wedding dress hung limply on the back of her bedroom door. Where it had been for a week and a half now. She asked Esme for it one night in a whisper barely louder than a branch breaking, fully expecting a refusal. Instead the woman was silent but three days later a box appeared in her room and in it the dress. She had spent several days mustering the courage but eventually found the spirit she needed. The last week was spent paying them visits one by one. He was the last one left. It was finally his big day.</p><p>She ran a finger over the ruching down the bodice. It was a simple dress, plain, mundane even. She struggled to imagine anyone willingly choosing to get married in it. Such a lackluster garment for a day you’d spent your whole life dreaming about. Nothing like the one she was supposed to be wearing. That one was perfect, elaborate but not distracting. The floral lace details complimented her beauty, like a shrine to a goddess. The seamstress had added lace from her grandmother’s dress to trim the neckline. She was going to wear her mother’s veil, updated to her own tastes. Fabric added to match the gown’s cathedral train. She had only worn the ensemble for brief fittings but it was simply perfect. She wished she could wear that dress, at least once. But stealing hers would have been too suspicious, she knew that far before Esme had apologized. The current assumption around town was that she had been stolen away in the night as she walked home from Vera’s, not far from the truth. A missing wedding gown would complicate the white lie. A soft knock broke her trance. She opened the door with a jolt, prepared to fight off another one of the doctor’s sermons. She was going to do this whether he liked it or not. She had to do it. He would never understand why, he could never understand. Just like how she would never understand why he did what he had. To Rosalie’s surprise Esme stood in the threshold, with a glimmer of shock on her face, like she hadn’t actually expected the door to open.</p><p>Rosalie motioned for her to enter the room, shutting the door behind her. She watched as Esme took a hesitant seat at the foot of the unnecessary bed. Balancing her weight just so, barely leaving an indent in the mattress. Her hands fiddled with a folded piece of paper in her lap. When she noticed Rosalie’s eyes on it she silently handed it over. The two had been forced into passing notes the past week. Edward had all but abandoned the house, spending all his time “hunting” or in other terms avoiding Rosalie. ‘Rochester’s very own Lizzie Borden,’ she had heard him joke to Carlisle as he fled to the wilderness that first night. Carlisle, however, insisted on staying in the house. He was well aware of her plans and had tried to convince her to change her mind dozens of times before his wife stepped in. She calmly pointed out that his objection to this plan was hypocritical at the very least, why Rosalie had yet to figure out. When that didn’t stop his pious admonishments the couple wound up in what seemed like a screaming match without either actually raising their voice. Rosalie had yet to hear Carlisle utter a real word since the fight with his wife the first night, but every word Rosalie and Esme spoke to each other resulted in a huff and scoff from a few rooms over. The loud placement of a book on a desk, the heavy footfall as he paced, the crumple of paper as he whispered prayers under his breath. So they wrote notes. Despite his silent resignation Carlisle refused to leave Esme alone with her. Like she was the dangerous one. The one who went around sucking the blood of unsuspecting teenagers. The one who lurked in the shadows waiting for the next unlucky townsperson. Well, she had just murdered six people. But, they deserved it. They deserved far worse. She had done the right thing. She was doing the right thing. He couldn’t understand because he had never done the right thing in his life.</p><p>“Do you want my help tonight?” was written on the folded piece of paper in nearly perfect cursive. Rosalie wondered for a brief second if that was a byproduct of their condition or if that had always been Esme’s handwriting. Had the delicate swoops come naturally, the penmanship Rosalie had spent hours trying to get herself but never succeeding.</p><p>Rosalie looked to the woman, she begrudgingly had begun to like. She looked horrified, but sure in her offer. Back rigid, taking far too long between breaths, but the usual furrow in her brow was gone. She was confident in her convictions. Despite the way she lived, trying to preserve the goodness in humanity. Despite the guilt that weighed on her after her own mistakes. Despite the fact that Royce, or any of those men, had done nothing to her. She fully understood how complicated the situation was. She looked up at Rosalie as if she was able to comprehend the complex emotions that plagued her, the ones it seemed impossible to voice.</p><p>The feelings Rosalie was unable to fully comprehend. The anger that almost made her physically explode, the anger that kept building with each attempt to release it. The anger that felt like it was utterly consuming except it wasn’t. It was battling paralyzing despair. Despair so heavy she felt like she would never be able to move again, anchored to the ground by grief for her life. Except her rage boiled so hot she felt like she would never be able to physically stop moving. Forever trucking along, pulling the shackle of her despair behind her, forever searching for something. Moved only by the irrational guilt that about knocked her off her feet. Maybe if she had just lived life a little differently. Why was she out that late? She should have known this is what you get for agreeing to marry a man you don’t know. She should have been smarter. She was so smart! Her dad had always said, ‘Rosie, my brilliant angel.’ Why hadn’t she been smarter? Why had she been so stupid? The shame in what her life had become made her blood run cold. Shame in what she had become. Doubt that built with each night almost stopped her. With every snapped neck, doubt brewed. Did they deserve this? These were husbands, sons… fathers. That thought never failed to stop her in her tracks. Nausea knocked her to her knees. Was she any better than them? Would she ever feel anything but empty? Would she ever be anything but what they made her? Why did this have to happen? Why her? Why?<br/>
Rosalie knew Esme understood it all perfectly. She would by no means enjoy the act but if it helped Rosalie she would do it. Rosalie knew she wrote it on the piece of paper because she was scared. Scared to admit her morality was so easily pushed aside. Scared because she knew her husband would refuse to let Rosalie drag her further into this scheme. Scared because she knew who would win if it came to a fight. Scared for what she would have to do if Rosalie said yes. She was willing to risk her morals, her marriage, her life in an attempt to alleviate Rosalie’s own anguish. And Rosalie couldn’t figure out why. Why did this woman who had only known her for five months want to risk everything? Why would she not bear the thought of making her risk everything?</p><p>Rosalie shook her head quickly. No. She could do this herself. She had to do this herself. Royce was the one who made this mess. Royce was her problem. Royce was hers. Esme nodded and gave a brief tight lipped smile. She got up to leave after Rosalie silently stared at the rug for three minutes; but Rosalie grabbed her elbow lightly, stopping her. Esme turned, eyebrows gently raised. Rosalie took the boar bristle brush off her vanity and held it out to Esme with questioning eyes. It took Esme a second to recognize the question but she took the brush and motioned for Rosalie to take a seat.</p><p>Rosalie watched in the mirror as Esme brushed her hair with extreme caution. Esme always treated her like that. As if she was a priceless heirloom, delicate, on the verge of shattering. No one ever treated her like that before him. Before them; him, and him, and him, and him, and him, and him, and Him. As if taking her life and her autonomy wasn’t enough. They had made her into shards of a person - a dish carelessly broken.<br/>
When the tangles were gone, Esme looked to Rosalie in the mirror. She pointed to her own hair, pinned back, with an eyebrow raised and mouthed ‘or’ and waved her hands in a leave it motion. Rosalie took her hair in her hands and twisted it to look like an updo. She shot Esme a questioning glance. Hoping Esme would understand the silent questions. Did this look right? Was it insane to worry about her hair before what she was going to do? Why did she care what she looked like? Weren’t her looks what got her here in the first place? Her stupid perfect face and perfect hair and perfect body that every man just had to have claim over. As if possessing a fragment of her would repair their battered being. They had to tarnish perfection because of how imperfect they were.</p><p>Esme quickly smiled, understanding the vision perfectly.</p><p>Rosalie released her hair and retrieved the tin of pins from her drawer. She held the open pin tin by her head as Esme worked. She barely felt Esme insert the pins into the tightly wound pin curls. Not like how her mother had worked. She closed her eyes as she remembered the Sunday mornings she spent as a little girl, screaming and dodging her mother’s hands. Squealing as the pins went into her hair, as if her mother was brutally stabbing her. Hairstyling sessions always ended in a fit of giggles as her mother caught her in her arms and tickled her sides until she cried. She would pin Rosalie between her knees and work as fast she could. Careful hands and a soft shush when Rosalie dramatically yelled at the tiny push of clip against scalp. Now she felt nothing. Could barely feel the hands touching her hair. Was it because vampires didn’t feel pain or because Esme simply was gentler? She didn’t know, she would never know. Why did it matter? She would probably never see this woman again. Why did she want to see this woman again? She blinked the thought out as Esme secured the last of the curls.<br/>
She caught the older, not by much, woman’s gaze in the mirror. She almost thought she could see pride etched on the soft features. No. That couldn’t be right. Not the wife of Every Life is a Blessing, Mrs. Carlisle ‘God will punish sinners’ Cullen, the unblushing bride of We are not here to be God, ignore the fact that I played God and stole your life, please. She could not be proud of a serial murderer. Rosalie ignored the fact Esme was one herself.</p><p>Carlisle was the worst part of Esme. Rosalie was sure of that. If he wasn’t around she could actually imagine enjoying the woman’s company. But, if he wasn’t around she wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place. She would be happily six feet underground. Not doomed to worry about every little thing for the rest of time. Rosalie could not pathom how an intelligent woman like Esme could be tricked by his ‘charms.’ At least until she coaxed the full story out of Esme. Of course, the creep got even creepier with every detail. He changed a woman just because he remembered her as a child. Not only did he not have her consent he reversed her dying wish. Married her less than a year after her child died and she had left her abusive piece of shit husband. Compared to someone who almost killed her time and time again of course the doctor looked miraculous! She was still mourning and grieving and he rode in like Prince Charming ready to take all her pain away. Ready to give her a shell of the life she had always dreamed of; as long as she played along in his big production. Never permitting her to feel anything but grateful. Of course he felt entitled to do the same with Rosalie.</p><p>She wondered how different Esme would be if she hadn’t been molded so carefully by the puppet master. Would she be angry? Could she even still get angry? Or was she doomed to always be the shell of the woman Rosalie imagined she once was? The woman who wanted to move out West. The teenage girl who snuck into the boy’s higher level classes. Who knocked her husband over the head with a whiskey bottle when he hit her one too many times. The woman who had more courage than a battalion as she ran in the middle of the night. The woman who lied and said she was a war widow when easy calculations meant her son would be a bastard but it didn’t matter because she’d be free. The woman who was ready to make a life for herself with two dollars to her name. The woman who clicked her heels as she dove headfirst off a cliff. Rosalie saw glimmers of that woman. In the sparkle that lit Esme’s eyes as she told the stories. In the way her mouth twitched at the corner, a phantom smile. In the pride that drenched her words as she detailed the train ride to Ashland, the wind on her face as she fell, the daydreams that filled her life. As if she was an onlooker, telling urban legends. Would that woman ever be again?</p><p>No.</p><p>They were stuck frozen forever. They both were always going to be a figment of the women they once were. God, he deserved to die just for that.<br/>
She could do it. She could kill him. Sever his limbs and torch him. Edward had told her that’s the only way to kill ‘their kind.’ She had hissed there was no ‘their.’ He probably wouldn’t even resist, see it as some poetic justice moment. The holy one destroyed by the demon. He did everything he could to be good! He wasn’t good. He was evil and he knew it. He tried to deny it but he was as rotten as they come. She saw right through him and that terrified him. Yes, he deserved to die. She deserved to kill him. She wanted to. Wanted to pull his head from his body and watch him perish in the blaze of roaring hellfire. But if she didn’t get the mercy of death neither did he. They would be stuck in their eternal life sentences together. He would have to live with his failures for eternity. She would remind him of his sins everyday, haunting him until the Rapture. And he would never be able to change, never improving, forever frozen as the wretched sinner he was. How’s that for poetic justice?</p><p>Esme had the veil in her hand, waiting for Rosalie’s approval. When Rosalie gave a slight nod. Mentally still thousands of miles away as the veil got pinned in the curls. Rosalie reluctantly moved to get up ready to put on her dress but Esme stopped her with a slight finger. A ‘wait here.’</p><p>She returned in a second with a floral bag. She unzipped the bag to reveal various cosmetics. Rosalie was confused. Did makeup even apply to their stoney faces? As if hearing the thought Esme laughed to herself and opened a lipstick and swiped it against the top of her hand. The red streak stood out against the pale skin, like the first stroke of paint on a white wall. It didn’t look quite right but it didn’t look exactly wrong. Rosalie barely smiled at the sight, she could make it work. She had no need to enhance her features but the look felt incomplete without it. She reached for the mascara, running the brush against the black cake and then against her eyelashes. Esme stood back as she swiped rogue against her cheeks, the powder barely sticking to the marble like skin. Esme shook her head and took a pink lipstick and dabbed the color onto her finger running it over the apples of her own cheeks, she then brushed the powder over the lipstick. The powder attached to the tacky cream. Rosalie nodded and mirrored the action. That looked much better.</p><p>When she was done she looked almost right. Less like a corpse, more like the beauty she had always been. She changed into the gown in the en suite bathroom coming out so Esme could help with the buttons. She wore her hunting boots under the gown, they didn’t match but they were convenient for navigating the terrain. She learned on the third night heels were far too delicate for fleeing crime scenes. Her heel had snapped in a crack on the sidewalk and she had to hobble the rest of the way home, refusing to walk barefoot. She barely minded the incongruence, her footwear choice would be the last thing on Royce’s mind.</p><p>She clipped on a pair of pearl drop earrings the pair she had been wearing that night. One of two things that had survived that night. Coincidentally the pearls matched the trim on her dress, and the ones inlaid in her veil. She straightened her veil in the mirror and glanced back at Esme for a brief second but lingered to watch as she slipped off her necklace. She held out the string of pearls nonchalantly, shrugging when Rosalie gave her a worried look. She motioned to the other pearl accents and Rosalie nodded, bending down so Esme could fasten the necklace. Rosalie smiled as she caught their reflection in the mirror, Esme’s reflection grinned right back at her. Esme’s hand lingered on Rosalie’s shoulder for a millisecond, a gesture attempting to convey the unspeakable. Rosalie wrapped the smaller hand in her own and squeezed lightly before letting go.</p><p>The two walked into the hallway, Esme leading the way. She paused at the hallway side table, emptying the vase of its arrangement of red roses. She dried them with the edge of her old house dress. She untied the ribbon from the end of her braid and tied it around the flowers’ stems before offering the bouquet to the bride. She gave Rosalie a half smile which she returned with a grin before she darted down the grand stairs. Esme remained at the second floor landing as she watched with pride.</p><p>Rosalie passed Carlisle’s study, the door which she had only ever seen wide open was shut. She could hear the light tap of his house shoes against hardwood, the almost silent pace back and forth. Hushed ‘our heavenly father’ blended into the swish of her dress. She made her way through the house quickly, yet to decide if she would ever walk these halls again.<br/>
She hadn’t noticed Edward’s return to the house but he started to play Mendelssohn’s Wedding March as she made her way off the front porch. She whirled back to face the house, ready to pound up the stairs and shut the idiot up but she paused, she would deal with him later.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you for reading!!<br/>if you would ever like to see a certain prompt or idea please feel free to drop a request here or on tumblr ( palmofafreezinghand)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. 2006 grief in a glass</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>billy black and sue clearwater share a drink after harry clearwater's funeral.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>2006</p><p>The whiskey found the glass like a hand at the small of a date’s back. The radio, which always seemed to be playing without anyone ever purposefully turning it on, was playing “the best of the crooners.” The clock struck eleven as the glass hit his lips.</p><p>His last drink was the day he was prescribed a wheelchair. The one before it, the day Sarah died. When she went he promised to never touch another bottle. He didn’t have a problem, he never did. He could drink one night and not have one for weeks. It wasn’t that. He was secretly terrified it somehow might just get there. So he would never give it the chance.</p><p>He had only broken his vow once, and he rationed she’d forgive him. Losing your mobility and becoming reliant on your thirteen year old kid seemed a worthy excuse for a glass of gin.</p><p>She’d always been so forgiving. Death makes you romanticize, he knew that. He knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t possibly romanticize her. She was just as wonderful as he remembered. More so. God, he missed her. So much so, ‘miss’ felt like an understatement.</p><p>He refilled the glass. The vow broken a second time, but your best friend’s funeral seemed a reason good as any.</p><p>The back door’s hinges squeaked open and the door gently closed. The heavy footfall against a creaky deck board. He didn’t look up. He knew who it was before she spoke. He knew the grief that moved you without permission, trying to find solace in the familiar. It’s why he had left the porch light on. A silent beacon for the mindless wanderer.</p><p>“Room for one more?” A coffee mug got placed on the porch railing. He filled the mug as Sue leaned against the railing, her eyes fixed on the trees.</p><p>They stayed quiet, gazing into the night as ‘New York, New York’ faded into ‘Are you Lonesome Tonight?’ which faded into ‘Mr. Sandman,’ which faded into ‘It’s Been A Long, Long Time.’</p><p>“How’d you do it?” Sue finally asked over Bing Crosby.<br/>
“I had no choice not to. I had - I have the kids.”<br/>
“Hm,” she held her mug out for more and he obliged. “Are you ever angry?”<br/>
“All the time.”<br/>
She pondered this for a few moments, it was clear she had been crying. Her eyes still glistened but no tears actively falling, “it wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”<br/>
“But it did,” he was all too familiar of the injustice of it all. The injustice that came out of nowhere and changed your entire worldview. He was even more familiar with the rage that accompanied it.<br/>
“His heart wasn’t great but I see people with worse hearts every day and they’re still here,” her hand tightened around the mug’s handle.<br/>
“I know.”<br/>
“It isn’t fair.”<br/>
“It isn’t.”<br/>
“Are you ever mad at her?”<br/>
“Sarah?” Saying her name aloud was a mix between a curse and a prayer. Around the kids she was ‘your mom’ and for everyone else she was usually ‘my wife.’ Her name was sacred to him, something that was his alone.<br/>
“Yeah.”<br/>
“For a little bit I was.”<br/>
“But not now?”<br/>
“No. I’m lucky for the good years we had.”<br/>
“She was a good woman.”<br/>
“Yeah. She was.” Billy nodded as Sue seemed to mull her own thoughts for a few more minutes.<br/>
“I’m mad at him.”<br/>
“I’m mad at him too.”<br/>
“Really?”<br/>
“He owed me five bucks.”<br/>
Sue smiled but it didn’t reach her face. “Two kids,” she breathed.<br/>
“How are they holding up?”<br/>
“Leah blames herself and Seth is, well you know him. He acts fine but … I mean he’s fourteen! A boy needs his dad when he’s fourteen. They’re trying to be strong though, trying not to show that they’re hurt. Like they have to be strong for me? Which is crazy because I’m the parent and I’m supposed to be the strong one and the one that makes this all better but right now, I just can’t.” She paused for a minute, and Billy didn’t interrupt her. He watched as her fingers tapped the side of the mug, her nails clicking against porcelain. “And then there’s this whole stupid thing ontop of it,” she motioned her hand, and he knew what she meant without uttering the words. “I just don’t know how to help them, you know?”<br/>
“I know,” he agreed. He had always wished to become just like his grandfather, to protect his town, his family. He dreamed of being something of legends, but as the days passed him by and he watched his own boy grow he wished they would remain that. Legends. Instead he watched the kids he knew since before they were born get their childhood ripped away from them. His own son forced to be a protector of his town against century old monsters. Put in harms way again and again, threatened to be taken from this world at one blood sucker’s whim; and all Billy could do was watch, helpless.<br/>
“It’s all their fault,” she said through clenched teeth as a commercial break finished.<br/>
“You want to go tell them what you think of them?” Billy smiled.<br/>
Sue sputtered and wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.<br/>
“What! You don’t think we could take them?” Billy asked feigning indignation. “Sue Clearwater scared of a little vampire?” He started clucking like a chicken, and mimicking a wing with his free hand.<br/>
She moved to swat at him but he wheeled out of her way, she turned back to the trees but turned back quickly, trying to sneak up on him. She almost got him but she tripped on her own shoe which finally made her smile. “Yeah we’re a really ferocious pair,” she laughed through tears.<br/>
He held his hand out so she could steady herself again and she turned back to the yard, the slight smile slowly faded.</p><p>They went back to silence, the void quickly filled with Roger Miller’s ‘Little Green Apples.’</p><p>Billy’s grasp on his glass tightened. He hadn’t heard the song since they had danced in the driveway the night they moved in. The truck doors left open so they could faintly hear the radio, one of her favorite cassettes playing. They had spent that day loading boxes into a truck to unload them an hour later. They were headed in for the first night in their new house when, exhausted and sweaty, she grabbed his hand. She pulled him in front of the truck’s headlights and swayed in the gravel drive. Her head on his chest, his chin on her hair. It was more rocking back and forth than a waltz, their bodies separated by her bump. The twins were expected to arrive in two short months, but she reminded him every day ‘twins come early.’ And they did. They had brought them home three weeks after that slow dance in the driveway.</p><p>The little red house by the beach they had called a ‘starter home.’ She painted a mural of jungle animals and plants in the girl’s nursery. Recorded their first steps on the camcorder he gave her for Christmas. They were more tired than they had ever been running after the little toddlers all day long. On the back porch facing nothing but trees she had told him they were going to be a lot more tired real soon. Rebecca and Rachel had met Jacob for the first time in their living room. He taught the kids how to ride a bike in that driveway. She would make pancakes with the ladle he had carved for her. Banana pancakes for Rebecca, blueberry for Rachel, and Jacob took any and all he could get. He would take all the kids out for a walk on the beach on Sunday mornings so she could sleep in. They’d get home and she’d be in the kitchen with a bowl of batter and a cup of coffee and smile at him over the griddle. She’d whisper ‘hi’ when he kissed her temple as the kids bickered over the first pancakes. She’d smile in her sleep when he kissed her cheek goodbye before fishing trips. She’d push him straight to the shower when he got home, ‘you smell like a seal!’ She taught Jacob how to braid on his hair. She would tuck dandelions in his braids when they laid out in the backyard, watching the kids play.</p><p>If that’s not love.</p><p>Yes, ‘miss’ was an understatement.</p><p>“Thank you, Billy.” Sue said after Billy couldn’t begin to guess how long but ‘Little Green Apples’ no longer filled the air. She grabbed his empty glass from the railing and tucked the bottle under her arm. She kissed the top of his head and the back door squeaked open and shut again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you for reading!!<br/>if you would ever like to see a certain prompt or idea please feel free to drop a request here or on tumblr ( palmofafreezinghand)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. 2003 race ya!</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>billy black, charlie swan, and harry clearwater have some fun with with billy's new chair</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>a quick little thing because I could not get this image out of my head</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“At least you’ll get buff,” Charlie said as he cracked open his beer can. He was referring to the new wheelchair his friend was sitting in.</p><p>“Buff?” Billy asked.</p><p>“Your arms, having to push yourself everywhere, ya know? Buff.” Charlie flexed his muscles.</p><p>“Oh, buff.”</p><p>“I better not catch you speeding, or I’ll have to take you to the clink,” Charlie said between swigs of beer.</p><p>“The clink?” Billy laughed.</p><p>“Downtown. The Big House. The slammer,” Charlie said with utter sincerity.</p><p>“Stop.”</p><p>“It’s not my fault you’re not hip.” Charlie shrugged.</p><p>“Hip. You think you’re hip now?”</p><p>“I’m pretty swaggy,” Charlie said as he shimmied his shoulders.</p><p>“I think you’ve had enough,” Billy reached for Charlie’s beer.</p><p>“I caught a vandalizer and he taught me new words,” Charlie said, explaining where his new vernacular stemmed from.</p><p>“That explains it.”</p><p>“How fast can you get this thing you think?” Charlie motioned to the new wheelchair.</p><p>“As fast as a bike the doctor said.”</p><p>“Hm. Maybe for you.”</p><p>“What’s that supposed to mean?”</p><p>“I mean with your old man arms that sounds right.”</p><p>“You think you can go faster?”</p><p>“No question.”</p><p>“You’re full of it.”</p><p>“You wanna bet? I have my speed gun, let’s see.”</p><p>“What do I get when I beat you?”</p><p>“When! Yeah right. What do you want?”</p><p>“You stop making me buy that crap.” He motioned to the case of Ballantine’s on the kitchen counter.</p><p>“And if I win you drink one.”</p><p>“That is cruel and unusual punishment!” Billy laughed but shook Charlie’s hand anyways.</p>
<hr/><p>They set one of Billy’s dining room chairs in the driveway. Charlie marked the finish line of their race with his empty beer can and then took a seat in the chair. Their race track was about forty feet of the street in front of Billy’s house.</p><p>“Ready, set, go!” Charlie called mimicking a starter’s pistol with his speed gun.</p><p>Billy wheeled as fast as he could on the straight track but it wasn’t very fast.</p><p>“Pathetic!”</p><p>“What I’d get?” Billy asked as he gasped for breath a little at the finish line.</p><p>“It didn’t even pick you up!” Charlie laughed showing the blank screen on his gun.</p><p>“What! Were you using it right?”</p><p>“You’re just slow!”</p><p>“I think that thing’s broken,” Billy said as he made his way to the driveway. As he said it a car rushed past the house, Charlie held up the gun. He turned the screen so Billy could see a blinking ‘55 MPH.’</p><p>“Hey! Kids live here!” Billy called after the speeder.</p><p>“Do I even have to go? I already won!” Charlie laughed as he stood up from the chair.</p><p>“You didn’t win squat.” Billy challenged as Charlie helped him transfer to the dining room table. Billy held the speed gun up to another passing car to make sure the thing worked, much to his chagrin it did.</p><p>Charlie readied himself at the starting line, leaning forward thinking it would make him faster.</p><p>“Go!” Billy shouted.</p><p>Charlie was even slower than Billy, the speed once again did not register on the gun.</p><p>“Hey Big Shot!” Billy flashed the blank screen.</p><p>“Ok, the thing’s broken,” Charlie sighed looking around the neighborhood. “Maybe we just need a little momentum,” he said as he glanced up the Clearwater’s steep driveway.</p><p>“You’re on!” Billy grinned, he was not going to lose to Charlie, no sir.</p>
<hr/><p>Charlie positioned the dining chair on the side of the road and helped Billy back into it. Charlie would be the first down the hill, it was his idea and he was more than a little worried Billy might fly out of the chair.</p><p>“What do you think you’re doing?” Harry Clearwater’s voice called from his front porch as Charlie positioned himself in front of the Clearwater’s garage.</p><p>“I’m about to show this little punk who’s faster,” Charlie said resting his foot on the pavement to stop himself from rolling too soon.</p><p>Harry waved to Billy, “I’m in.”</p><p>“Ready?” Billy shouted.</p><p>“I was born ready!” Charlie shouted back, lifting his foot off the pavement. He wheeled as fast as he could but stopped when he got downhill. He felt like he was flying, he was going much faster than a bike, he was going to win no doubt about it. Billy was going to have to drink a bee- Billy never taught him to stop. “Billy!” He screamed as he came to the end of the driveway and was launched onto the main street.</p><p>“Backwards! Like a bike!” Billy shouted. Harry Clearwater stood at the top of the drive doubled over in laughter. Charlie flailed in the chair but eventually got the death machine to stop.<br/>
Charlie ran the chair back up to where Billy sat, “how fast?” He asked between breaths. Billy angled the gun so Charlie could see for himself. “21! Suck it!” Charlie grinned as Billy transferred chairs.</p><p>“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Billy said as Charlie pushed him up the hill.</p><p>Charlie positioned him at their starting line, actually a few feet behind the starting line but Billy didn’t need to know that, and then went back down the hill.</p><p>“Ready, set -” before he could say go Billy was already hurling down the driveway. His deep laughter rang through the air, his hair flowed behind him like one of those Fabio books Renee used to read. “23!” Charlie shouted when Billy reached the end of the drive, coming to a stop much more gracefully than Charlie had. Charlie was already out of the chair when Harry came running down the driveway.</p><p>“I’ll get him,” Harry said as he glanced towards Charlie.</p><p>Harry then pushed Billy up the driveway and stopped at the dining room chair. “I need to be higher than 23?” Harry asked as Billy once again transferred chairs.</p><p>Charlie and Billy nodded as Harry ran up the rest of the driveway, positioning himself a foot past the starting line. “Behind the line!” Charlie yelled and Harry backed up.</p><p>He got a whopping 23 miles per hour as well.</p><p>“I get to go again,” Charlie pouted as Harry slowly brought the chair back up the hill.</p><p>The men obliged and continued racing for a long time, always coming within a point of each other, and all too stubborn to accept defeat.</p><p>“Maybe we’ll go faster if we have more weight,” Harry said as he bent over gasping for breath. The driveway seemed to get steeper everytime he had to run up it.</p><p>“What?” Billy asked.</p><p>“Hear me out if two of us went at the same time, we’d go faster.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“No, that makes sense,” Charlie said as he reached for the chair.</p><p>“You two are idiots!” Billy exclaimed as Charlie and Harry went to the top of the driveway.</p><p>They put the chair at the starting line and Charlie went to sit down but Harry stopped him. “I am not sitting in your lap.”</p><p>“How else are we going to do this?” Charlie asked, moving to sit in the chair once more. Harry blocked him and sat down. “You think I’m going to sit in your lap?” Charlie exclaimed.</p><p>“Just sit down.” Harry pulled a reluctant Charlie into the chair. “How are we going to do this?” Harry asked as he pondered how to push the chair and secure Charlie. “You have to hold on.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Just do it.” Charlie did as he was asked and twisted in the chair so he could wrap his arms around Harry’s neck. “Tuck your legs,” Harry said as Charlie’s legs blocked the wheel. Charlie brought his knees up so he was now cradled in Harry’s lap.</p><p>“This better work,” Charlie mumbled but before Harry could launch them down the driveway something stopped them.</p><p>“What are you doing?” Sue exclaimed running into the driveway. She had finally caught sight of the tomfoolery from her bedroom window.</p><p>“Nothing!” The three men shouted in unison.</p><p>“You really think this is going to work?” She asked with a brow raised.</p><p>Harry gave her a sheepish nod while Billy was grinning at the impending disaster.</p><p>She walked over to Billy’s spot on the sidelines with a neutral expression.“Alright, let’s see it then,” she motioned for them to start.</p><p>Charlie glanced at Harry, still clutched to the man’s chest, and nodded for him to push them off. Harry was right. More weight made the chair go faster, maybe a little too fast, because by the time they reached halfway down the drive the chair was going 47 miles an hour.</p><p>“Stop! Stop! Stop!” Charlie kept shouting in fear but the chair kept going. Harry reached for the wheels but as he tried to stop the chair it lurched forward, throwing both men to the ground.<br/>
The two men landed on top of each other, the chair collapsed on the pile of limbs. Billy and Sue looked on in horror but both didn’t make a move to help. When the two men finally groaned and got their way off of each other they were only met with loud laughter. Billy and Sue were hanging on each other, laughing so hard they were almost crying.</p><p>“I told you I’d win!” Billy eventually bellowed.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you for reading! if there's ever something you want to read please do not hesitate!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. 1911 missed connection</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>carlisle runs into esme after he casts her leg, well kind-of.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>1911</p><p>Carlisle would miss the farmlands of Columbus the most. Not that he ever dined on a farmer’s livestock, quite the contrary. He’d patrol the expansive fields for the wry predator, he was a protector of sorts. Some lands had Chupacabra or Sasquatch, Ohio had a friendly vampire. Chicago was going to be a difficult transition but it was one he’d made many times before and would make many times again.</p><p>He had planned to be in Ohio for a few years more at least, that was until the farm girl with a broken leg made him question everything. He hadn’t been that tempted in years, decades, maybe even a century. Even then, no blood had ever been so alluring. No laugh ever so enticing. No one ever so alluring he had to pick up his life and flee the state. There was just something about her. Something that scared him more than anything. So he decided to do what he did best, run.</p><p>He finished off a red fox and two white-tailed deer before he felt satiated enough for a comfortable train ride. He quickly darted between sparse trees and tall crops as he made his way back to the automobile he had abandoned hours ago. As he walked on the edge of a fruit grove he heard a shout.</p><p>“Get eaten by a coyote, I don’t care!” It was her voice. It couldn’t be. Her scent was everywhere in the small grove. The familiar heartbeat was near too. He jumped from the tops of trees, doing his best not to rustle a single leaf, until he came to the edge of the orchard. There in the backyard of a small farmhouse stood Esme Platt, attempting to wrangle chickens with her crutches.</p><p>“Won’t see me crying.” She said as she began to hobble away from the disobedient hens, who just followed her. “Nope, won’t even give ya a funeral.”</p><p>He was confident she couldn’t see him from the tree. He was even more confident he should leave but something weighed him down. He sat down on the branch without thinking, resting his head against the tree’s trunk as he watched her.</p><p>She should not have been walking so soon after getting her leg casted. Maybe the laudanum hadn’t quite worn off yet. But that would make this scenario even more horrifying, she could very easily re-injure herself. He should go and help her, she was not in her right mind. Great idea, Carlisle. No! How on Earth would he explain that? Just being a responsible practitioner. A responsible practitioner who stalks a patient home and lurks in her grove?</p><p>“Well, if it ain’t little miss Esme!” A young man bellowed across the field and broke Carlisle’s train of thought. His hands were rough from years of farm labor despite his young age. His skin golden from long days under the summer sun. His overalls had well earned patches in the knees. He practically skipped over to Esme.</p><p>“Hi, Davey.” Esme grinned and almost dropped her crutch when she tried to wave at him but he caught it just in time. He steadied her with one hand and replaced her crutch with the other.</p><p>“I thought somebody’s supposed to be on bedrest.” The young man teased her as he picked up the hen at her feet.</p><p>“Got bored.” Fantastic. She was going to be as stubborn about this as Carlisle feared.</p><p>“You’re fit to break your other leg out here.” Dave smiled a crooked smile as he shooed the last chickens into their coop for her.</p><p>“You didn’t tell ‘em goodnight.” Esme pouted when he locked the coop door.</p><p>“I’m sorry, goodnight dinner.”</p><p>“That’s not funny.” Esme playfully swatted at his arm. He swatted back at her and she defended herself and he swatted again and she tried to come back even better but ended up wobbling and putting weight on the fresh break. The yelp she let out almost had Carlisle jumping from the tree and catching her, exposing a centuries old secret. Luckily, the young man caught her as soon as began to fall.</p><p>“Your leg alright?” He asked as he held onto her arm.</p><p>“Hurts, but it’ll be fine.” She righted herself, and was obviously hiding her pain. She needed to rest. Why didn’t she understand she needed to rest? Hadn’t he made that abundantly clear in their meeting? Maybe he’d given her too much laudanum. Great.</p><p>“Dr. Crotchety?” The young man asked. Carlisle rolled his eyes, he too had less than choice words for Dr. Callaghan.</p><p>“That’s not his name, and no it was someone else. Young. Nice,” Esme said with a soft smile. Young! Nice! Esme Platt thought he was young and nice!</p><p>“I liked him.” She liked him! He rejoiced in the tree. She liked him! That fact should not have made him as happy as it did, he was well aware.</p><p>“Make fun of you for tree climbing?” No ‘Davey’ he would never. He was a nice person. Esme said so.</p><p>“How’d you know?” Esme gasped.</p><p>“Your pa said it was when you slid in the crik but that wouldn’t explain why the oak tree was missin’ half its branches.” The young man smirked as Esme’s jaw dropped.</p><p>“David, promise me you won’t tell! Mother will kill me.”</p><p>“Which is why I cleaned it up. Your book’s in your room.” He rubbed away her frown line with his thumb.</p><p>“Oh! Thank you!” She launched herself at him, and he caught her when her arms wrapped around his neck.</p><p>“Now you better get back in there or your ma will have my head,” David said when Esme released him. He still held her waist so she wouldn’t topple over or because he wanted to. Carlisle couldn’t discern which.</p><p>“It’s boring.”</p><p>“I’ll walk ya in.”</p><p>“Stay for a while?”</p><p>“Got to be home by 7, I can stay till then.”</p><p>“You’re the best!” Esme praised as she began to crutch on the uneven grass.</p><p>“Arm,” David said as he stepped in front of Esme.</p><p>“I broke my leg they didn’t cut it off!” Esme protested.</p><p>“Just give me an arm.” Esme obliged and reached one of her arms up. David bent down and lifted her into his arms, like he’d done it a thousand times before. She held one arm around David’s neck and the other held her crutch. “Doesn’t hurt?” He asked, being overly cautious with her injured leg.</p><p>“Nope.” Esme laughed, at nothing in particular, as he slowly walked her to the back porch.</p><p>Carlisle lingered in the apple tree for a few minutes longer. He heard faint shuffles in the white farmhouse, he saw a candle illuminate a room down stairs, he could see shadows move around the room. He needed to leave.</p><p>As he walked to his car he prayed for the first time in years. He prayed the whole way to the train station. He didn’t say ‘Amen’ until he stepped foot in Chicago.</p><p>She’d be happy. Maybe she’d be a school teacher, maybe she wouldn’t, but she’d be happy. Maybe she’d marry David, maybe she wouldn’t. One thing was certain she would remain as joyful, inquisitive, and kind as she was that day. She had to. She would live a long happy life. She had to. That’s why he was leaving after all.</p><p>He had to give her a shot, he prayed the world did too.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you so much for reading!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you so much for reading! if you ever want to request something please feel free on tumblr: palmofafreezinghand  or here! thank you again!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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